LETTER XCVIII. Dr. LETTSOM to Sir M. MARTIN, Bart. Dear Sir Mordaunt, London, Oct. 10, 1799. Thy last letter of July 14th left thee under some degree of family solicitudes. Let us endeavour, ever so attentively, to obviate temporal cares the most free from them are not exempt from their intrusion in common social intercourse among friends in the nearer alliances of consanguinity something or other will intervene, to excite the sympathies of the heart, and to tell us, that "this is not our continuing city;" and that whilst we remain here, we may plant roses, and strew balm, but thorns and nettles will chequer the walk, and mingle their pungencies. But what is man without cares? His mercies he would forget; arrogance would domineer, where humility should direct; and having few calls to the exercise of sympathy, humanity, and its attendant charities, would neither meliorate the heart nor soften the manners: for these are only the bosom friends of virtuous sensibility. Come then, sedate Melancholy, and extend thy calm mantle over the heart that rejoices to excess, or counts upon dubious and deceitful pleasures, and throw ballast into the bark, whose lofty sails are a sport to the winds, and I will welcome thee as my guardian angel! Thus, my friend, I reflected as I perused thy excellent letter, and courted and dwelt upon the mutual pleasures it conveyed. Although our silence has been too long for my satisfaction, my mind has been often occupied in thinking of thee, and lamenting that a crowd of immediate demands upon my pen has prevented me from saluting thee with a few lines. In my last, I had to comfort thee under a severe family affliction, when I little expected to be visited with an affliction that never can be healed. A few weeks ago I thought my mind would have recovered its wonted state; but, alas! time only opens wider and wider the wounds so deeply inflicted. I have amiable children left to bless me, but my deceased son was beyond human kind, and his death has broken the chain of every pleasurable prospect that declining years might have hoped fondly to have indulged in. I know "we have no continuing city here," and that it is our duty to bow with submission to the dispensations of Divine Wisdom, however severe our allotment. I endeavour so to do, but every effort renews and augments affliction. In youth our passions are animated, ardour is warm, and pleasures and pains vehement; but in advancing life, although the brilliancy of the flame may burn with less heat, the embers preserve a more steady and durable warmth-if the external lustre is less brilliant, the latent heat consumes inwardly with longer duration. Thus I reason, because thus I feel. In my weakness I claim thy sympathy. In my repinings I ask for indulgence, and dismiss the subject. I was pleased to see thy name enriching the Transactions of the Bath Society. With respect to myself, I have had no literary pursuits since the Naturalist's Companion, which I believe will demand a new edition in the Spring. About London, and indeed through Herts, oats and wheat are, I believe, very promising; barley less so, and pease still more unfavourable. The grass about us was immense, and it was expected that hay would be cheap; but the summer has been so sultry and dry, as to reverse the prospect, for stock must be fed by hay, which is six guineas a load in our market. Oats, however, from 46s. a quarter are rapidly reduced to 36s.; and, it is supposed, that wheat will experience a consider able reduction, though at present our quartern loaf is 1s. 6d. a sum truly oppressive to the poor. Here I relinquished my pen to attend a paralytic patient at Bush Hall, beyond Hatfield, Herts. I observed the oats to be very thin, and the land arid, and not so productive as I expected in this county. I travel all night again to visit my patient, and whilst others are sleeping I subscribe myself sincerely, J. C. LETTSOM. To the memory of John Miers Lettsom, M. D. who departed this life Jan. 29, 1800. Isaiah, ch. lvii. 1 and 2. By H. SMITH, Esq. I. Hark! Hark! I hear the shriek of woe! The spirit flies to meet its God: And leaves us mortals here below, To mourn our loss, and kiss the rod. II. Full fast the tear for deepest grief, In sympathy finds sweet relief; And mem'ry yields the rising sigh, To worth like his, which ne'er can die. III. His virtues bloom'd at early dawn, And gave fond hope of riper day; Could mortals penetrate the gloom, And view the ills that on them wait; My dear Friend, London, Nov. 26, 1800. Chequered as is the path of life with various vicissitudes; its turnings and windings sometimes present to the view fragrant flowers and the fairest plants, that seem to promise a perpetual evergreen; but, alas! all is transient here- the storms lour, and the bleak winds blight the scene the flowers fade and the verdant foliage withers, and is destroyed! These painful transitions in the enjoyments of life are so frequent-youth fades, and age withers and decays that we are made, even under fair prospects, "to rejoice with fear and trembling." The mind, however, chastened by reflection, often finds that "it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting." Thou and I, my friend-friends by sentiment and not less so by domestic affliction, will not unfrequently retire to the house of mourning; and in those moments of calm contemplation, will learn to bow with -- |